


you're the only one who knows that i'm still breathing

by BeeLove



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fantastic Beasts Kink Meme, Forced Marriage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT3, POV Second Person, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8905804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeLove/pseuds/BeeLove
Summary: or: you carry my heart(you carry it in your heart)In which Percival Graves puts himself on the line to help newly weds Newt Scamander and Credence Barebone, and suffers greatly for it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the song, [400 Bones, by Frightened Rabbit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9YocHUxtbc), with the pronouns swapped.  
>  _I'm the only one who knows that you're still breathing_ \-- > _you're the only one who knows that i'm still breathing_
> 
> The alternate title is from the poem, [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in, by E.E. Cummings](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/49493), also with the pronouns swapped.  
>  _i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)_ \-- > _you carry my heart(you carry it in your heart)_
> 
> This was written in response to [this prompt](http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/459.html?thread=240331#cmt240331) on the Fantastic Beasts kink meme. To paraphrase: Newt and Credence are already married to each other, and a law is passed requiring them to take on a third spouse. Percival joins the marriage, but Newt and Credence are more focused on their relationship to each other, rather than on making him feel welcome. Percival suffers from the isolation, and becomes depressed. Newt and Credence realize that he is hurting, and work to regain his trust.

The folder comes across your desk purely by accident – a filing mistake made by some junior auror – but you can't force yourself to be annoyed by your underling's incompetence. You sift through the pagers, fist curled under your chin as you read.

They're newly weds, together for just over a year – one shy, with hair dark and thick like a raven's wing on a winter's night, and the other sly, with ginger curls that fall into his eyes like waves of sunlight – and marked as 'suspicious' by MACUSA's new and exceedingly controversial Marriage Registry. In an effort to maintain secrecy and stability within the American wizarding world, potentially dangerous couples are flagged for observation and, if the need arises, forced separation. You and many of your fellows argued heavily against it, but the motion passed.

The one with midnight eyes, (Credence Barebone, the file supplies) a first generation magic wielder only recently developing his powers, was raised by a notoriously anti-wizard, no-maj family. Strike one.

The one with copper freckles, (Newton Scamander, though he goes almost exclusively by Newt, you read carefully) the youngest son of a well off, British family, just happens to carry a suitcase full of illegal magical creatures everywhere he goes. Strike two.

In the photograph, they're holding hands and smiling. It's a photograph that was never supposed to end up on the desk of a government official. Credence (the younger of the pair – twenty-four to Scamander's thirty) has his face pressed against Newt's shoulder, and he might be blushing. Newt (the shorter of the pair, though not by very much) is grinning fondly at his new husband, and he swings their joined hands happily.

They don't deserve this.

You narrow your eyes in thought. The Marriage Registry allows for stipulations – ways for families to earn their way off of its damning pages. If a witch or wizard of high standing, from a reputable family of reputable blood status were to marry into the couple – establish a sense of decorum for the otherwise unseemly relationship – then MACUSA could be persuaded of the couple's willingness to cooperate within wizarding law. It's patronizing and it's insulting and it's their only hope. Your superiors will think you crazy – risking your own reputation for two potentially shifty wizards.

But you want to help them.

So you do.

==

You meet your new husbands-to-be on your wedding day, which in hindsight is a rather poor way to do it. But you've been lonely for so long that you don't remember how to interact with people who aren't contractually obligated to stand in your office and listen to you speak. A wedding ceremony shouldn't feel like a regular day at the office. They don't seem overly interested in meeting you, based upon how they've sequestered themselves in a corner of the licenses office. Credence, the younger, keeps sneaking glances at you while Newt, the freckled, is shameless in his glaring.

You try to pretend this doesn't hurt.

There's something green and spindly peeking its leafed head out of Scamander's jacket. A bowtruckle, you recognize from the drawings in your old school books. It narrows its little plant eyes at you, and you try to smile.

“Is that our witness?” You joke weakly, nodding at the twiggy creature.

“Excuse me?” Scamander's accent is crisp and sharp, and your smile falls.

“Your bowtruckle,” you try to explain. “I was wondering if it came along as a witness for the ceremony.”

“ _His_ name is Pickett,” Scamander corrects you briskly, as he covers the pocket with a thin fingered hand, “and _he_ is none of your concern.”

“Of course,” you nod once, solemn, as if your heart isn't crumbling into charred embers inside your chest. “My apologies.”

==

When Tina Goldstein, the only other auror at the office worth anything, found out about your intention to marry into the Scamander-Barebone couple, she stared at you in gaping, stunned silence for almost five minutes. During which you were quickly reviewing your assessment of her as 'the only other auror at the office worth anything'.

“But sir. Not that I'm not happy for you – _mozel tov_ , sir, by the way – but just.” She finally said, in that faltering way of hers. You had raised an eyebrow in silent encouragement for her to finish. “Just – why?” She wasn't teasing or being cruel. She was just being Goldstein – disarmingly honest to the end.

“I'm tired of being alone,” you admitted at length. Her eyes had softened, and her shoulders had dropped. You could feel the sentimentality rolling off of her in gentle, sweeping waves. There were times you seriously questioned if Queenie was the only Legilimens in the family. “And they need my help.”

“Awe, sir, that's a lot of risk for you just to help some fellas out.” She wasn't wrong – by aligning yourself with a potentially calamitous couple, you were risking your career as a whole. If your influence failed to keep them from self destructing, you would be forced to resign as an auror.

“They need my help,” you repeated with a shrug.

==

What you didn't tell her was this:

You want your husbands to live in your family manor with you. You want to build a home with them. You want to show them the garden that your mother grew, and that you maintain despite yourself. You imagine showing Credence the different flowers – pointing out which was her favorite – and you imagine Newt rattling off their scientific names as if he's listing colors or shapes or something equally and ridiculously simple. You imagine holding their hands. You imagine warmth.

You want to show them the library. It's huge, and you would feel embarrassed by it, if you didn't love it so much. It goes back generations of Graves families – each one building and adding more and more books. You'd like to think that Credence's eyes would light up if he saw it. You'd like to think that Newt would be rendered speechless by its expanse.

Perhaps you're being conceited.

Privately, oh so privately, you imagine showing them the gargantuan, clawfoot tub in the upstairs bathroom. Like the library, it's been in the family for generations. And like the library, it can easily fit three people in it. You imagine making such a joke while giving them a general tour of the house. You imagine burying your face in Credence's hair and meeting Newt's eyes with a mischievous smile. You imagine that Credence would blush, be bashful, be shy, but Newt would laugh and tangle his fingers with yours.

==

After the ceremony, you awkwardly escort your husbands to their apartment. They haven't expressed a desire to move in with you, and you won't be the one to broach the subject. They walk ahead of you by a good five feet, and you trail behind them with your hands stuffed in your pockets. Newt glances angrily over his shoulder at you every few blocks, and you're not sure what the appropriate facial expression is for this.

Hopeful, if you hate yourself.

You walk them to the door, and Newt shoos Credence inside before you can wish the boy good night. Suddenly it's just the two of you, and you keep your hands in your pockets as Newt takes a deep, steadying breath.

“The way I see it,” he starts, “is that MACUSA doesn't _trust_ us to behave in a way befitting their idea of how wizards should behave. Which is patronizing and insult beyond belief, Mr. Graves.” You don't argue, instead meeting his furious stare with a weariness you pray doesn't show on your face. 

“The way I see it,” he repeats, voice harsh and cutting in the quiet of the hallway, “is that you're a spy, here to keep us in line and correct us if we fall off course. So don't be surprised if you're not met with a warm welcome in this flat.” He turns on his heel and slams the door behind him.

“Of course,” you mumble, your shoulders hunched up around your ears. “My apologies.”

==

You imagine.

You imagine.

You imagine _dying_.

==

A week passes, and you don't see your new spouses. Who you do see is Tina Goldstein, perching on the edge of your desk as if you aren't her superior with firing rights. All it takes is one raised eyebrow, and she's standing wand straight her hands twitching in front of her.

“Goldstein,” you greet her, voice still sleep graveled.

“Good morning sir,” she smiles, face slightly pink. “Congratulations again, sir, on your nuptials. Queenie wanted me to tell you that she says _mozel tov_ and many good wishes.” You stare at her, saying nothing, and her smile slips. “How – how are your husbands, sir?”

“Fine,” your voice is clipped, and she doesn't take the hint. Or maybe she does, but she doesn't care.

“They must be grateful for you, sir. Doing what you're doing for them – it's real noble, Mr. Graves. Just thought you should know.” You don't tell her how much they would disagree vehemently with her assessment. You don't tell her that Newt would, in fact, disagree violently with her assessment – there would be much glaring and hissing and threatening and heart breaking (oh no, just you) involved.

“Thank you,” you grunt after a long stretch of silence, and Goldstein nods her head.

“You're welcome.” Her smile is soft and her eyes are vaguely sad when she leaves your office.

==

As the stabilizing force in the marriage, you are solely responsible for filing the paperwork. They are routine check ups, to be filled on a regular basis, for the purpose of updating the government of your growing relationship. Theoretically, all parties consult on the answers, to ensure maximum accuracy.

Theoretically, you're talking to your husbands.

Theoretically, you've touched them. Seen their smiles. Heard their laughs.

Theoretically.

At the top of the form is a place to write their names, for the purpose of organizing the document to its most efficient end. **SPOUSE A** and **SPOUSE B**. You take an agonizingly long amount of time deciding which is which. Do you rank them by age? Alphabetically? By height? By the desire to have one rather than the other in your arms? (Unhelpful. You have an equal desire for both of them.)

Finally, you settle on alphabetical order. **SPOUSE A:** _Credence Barebone_. **SPOUSE B:** _Newton A. F. Scamander_. You wonder if Newt would feel slighted that Credence is put first, but no. He wouldn't. Something tells you that Credence hasn't been put first for many things in his life. Maybe Newt is the only person to ever do that for him. Now you can be the second.

You scan through the remainder of the form with a mounting sense of dread. Birthplace. Birth date. Favorite color. Favorite food. Patronus. Gritting your teeth, you fill out as much as you can, as truthfully as you can. There are still many blank spaces that need information.

**FAVORITE COLOR OF SPOUSE A:**

You squint, conjuring the image of Credence Barebone in your mind. It would be easy to say his favorite color is black, due to the suit he wore both in the photograph and to the wedding. (You think it's the same suit. You wonder about his wardrobe. You'd like to buy him more clothes. You'd like to buy him everything.) But that doesn't feel right. He seems like the sort who wears black as a necessity, to blend in, to avoid notice. He seems like the sort who would love bright colors, despite his best efforts to go unseen.

_Pale blue_ , you write, _like a winter's morning, when the snow hasn't quite come in to choke out the sky._

**FAVORITE COLOR OF SPOUSE B:**

Newt Scamander, unlike his younger husband, doesn't shy away from color. He wears it carelessly, like he doesn't notice the menagerie of shades he's adorned in. You rest your chin on your hand, idly tapping against your jaw with your index finger.

_Green_ , you finally write, _like grass thriving after a rainstorm._

Pity the government official who has to deal with your paltry poetry.

==

Another week goes by, and you finally crack. You break. You splinter into pieces. You stand at the door of your husbands' apartment, a bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper tucked in your elbow, and you knock carefully. It takes a moment – just long enough for you to grow nearly sick from ever shaken nerves – before someone answers.

Credence Barebone peers at you from the behind the door, his eyes wide with shock.

“Good evening,” you nod at him, trying to remember what it feels like to smile, as you rock back on your heels a little.

“Um,” he looks nervously over his shoulder. “Newt? Mr. Graves is here.” You wonder what it would sound like if he called you Percival. If they both did. You know they won't.

“And what does he want?” The question is called, loudly enough for you to hear, from somewhere in the apartment. Credence shrugs, still gazing at you with confusion on his face.

“He brought flowers.”

“Flowers?” Newt's voice is closer, just over Credence's shoulder, as he too studies you from the doorway. “Whatever for?” It's a little intimidating, having both of them stare at you in perplexed judgment. You hold out the bouquet – red roses, for you are simple with your affections – and Newt's eyes narrow. “Lovely,” he comments.

“Yes,” Credence adds with a stammer and a blush. “Thank you,” he takes them from you and cradles them gently in his arms. You wonder if Newt is the first person who ever treated him kindly, with no hope of gaining anything in return. You wonder if you can be the second.

“I was hoping,” you start, when it becomes clear that neither of them is willing to say anything more. “I was hoping that we might be able to get to know each other. Just talk, if that's all right.” Credence glances at Newt, who inhales sharply.

“Thank you for the flowers, Mr. Graves, but it's a little late to be knocking on our door.” And said door shuts quickly, not quite in your face.

“Of course,” you sigh and tuck in your hands in your coat pockets, “my apologies.”

==

What you don't hear is this:

“Newt.”

“Credence.”

“Newt – that was _rude_. He brought us flowers. You could have let him in.”

“Let him in? And then what?”

“Given him coffee? Talk to him?”

“To what end, Credence? He is here to spy on us. He doesn't actually want to be with us. We're an obligation to him.”

“He brought us flowers. You don't bring flowers to obligations.”

==

Goldstein catches on quickly. She's sharp, and clever, and unafraid of you enough that she's not concerned about observing you. You feel that you should be unsettled by her sympathetic stares, but you're not. You're too busy filing out paperwork and chasing leads and keeping the wizarding world of New York safe from peril. Or at least minimize the peril that it faces. It's good to have goals.

For your husbands may hate you, but at least your city is marginally safe. Despite its best efforts to be as unsafe as is possible.

Goals.

Right.

“Mr. Graves, sir,” Goldstein pokes her head in as she passes your office. You raise an eyebrow without looking away from the sea of reports spread out across your desk. She takes it as a cue to continue talking. “Good morning, sir. How are your husbands doing?”

With a sigh, you lay down your quill and resist the urge to bang your head against something solid and heavy and potentially life ending. “Did you need something, Goldstein?”

“No sir,” she slips into your office and closes the door behind her. “Just wanted to see how you were doing. How are Newt and Credence settling into the manor?”

“They don't live with me. They keep an apartment.” You tell her before you can stop yourself. You freeze, as does she, as the reality of your admission sinks in. If she tells anyone – if someone were to find out – “Goldstein, I have to ask you to –”

“I'll keep it to myself,” she cuts you off. “Queenie might read it off me, but she won't tell no one either. Your secret's safe, sir.” She looks you in the eye when she says it, steady and sure. This is why she works for you – her determination and loyalty. “But sir, if MACUSA finds out...”

“I know.” You run your hands through your hair, “I'm well aware of the consequences. Thank you, Goldstein. For your concern.”

“If you need anything, sir, don't hesitate to ask.”

==

You start to think about dying. You wonder if you should be concerned, but yours is a dangerous job, so death is never far from your mind. You had hoped once that perhaps your husbands could replace that preoccupation – their effortless light might banish the ever constant shadow – but you know better now. 

The loneliness that once existed in the space between your fingers – quiet, unobtrusive, almost unnoticed – is heavier now. It's in the hollows of your elbows, the notches of your spine, the ladder of your ribs. It settles on your shoulders, like a shadow, heavy and half asleep. Its eyes are slits, peering over the wasteland of your life, and it finds you wanting.

You take deep breaths, close your eyes, and shake your head.

You keep thinking about dying.

==

**FAVORITE COLOR OF SPOUSE A:** _Pale blue, like a winter's morning, when the snow hasn't quite come in to choke out the sky._

What if it's red, like a child's balloon as it floats away, shrinking into an ever smaller dot against the wide expanse of the clouds and sky. Red, like fresh cherries picked from the trees your mother used to grow. Red, like strawberries. Red, like kissing. Red, like blood on the sidewalk. Red, like ending.

**FAVORITE COLOR OF SPOUSE B:** _Green, like grass thriving after a rainstorm._

What if it's purple, like the ribbons your mother wore to hold back her hair as she dug her fingers deep into the soil of her home. Purple, like burst open plum juice smeared across smiling cheeks and smudged on spindly fingertips. Purple, like thunderstorms. Purple, like hope. Purple, like bruises on a ribcage. Purple, like ending.

**PATRONUS OF SPOUSE A:**

**PATRONUS OF SPOUSE B:**

You try to imagine what Credence's patronus would be. A seal, perhaps. Something quick, and small, and effortlessly curious. Newt's would be something utterly bizarre. A giraffe, or a narwhal, or an ostrich, or a platypus. You smile, though it's brittle and there's salt in the back of your throat, as you envision him banishing a horde of dementors with nothing but a shimmering platypus at his side.

Instead you write _has not yet performed patronus charm in my presence_ for both of them. One less lie. One less inch of rope to hang yourself with. If you're found out – if they realize you're falsifying official government documents, everything will be naught. You'll be fired, cast out from MACUSA, and Credence and Newt will lose what pathetic protection you award them.

Let them come for me, you think. Let them come. It will surely hurt less than this.

==

You come across Credence three days later, purely on accident. He's about to duck across the street, clearly in a hurry and heedless of traffic. Though he's too far away for you to touch, you reach out nonetheless. Your magic snags the back of his jacket, holding him immobile on the corner with one foot still poised to walk straight into the path of a delivery truck.

“Please watch where you're going,” you make your way over to him, laying a careful hand on his shoulder and releasing your magic. His jacket falls to rest against his back, and Credence blinks up at you.

“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” he blushes, pink and young and lovely. You clear your throat, dropping your hand and looking away. He reaches for you, snagging the cuff of your jacket with his fingers. You find yourself staring down at your sleeve, the fresh snow paleness of his skin contrasting with the dark material.

“No wand,” he murmurs suddenly, looking you over. “You don't have to use a wand?” Shifting uncomfortably on your feet, you shake your head.

“Not always, no,” you admit, cautious of his reaction. Even witches and wizards raised around magic – those who grew up in your side of the world – can respond badly to wandless spells and enchantments. Credence's eyes grow wide, and you pull back. You have no idea what this boy – raised by a cruel, anti-wizard family – will think of you.

“Does that mean you're a very powerful wizard?” His voice is hushed.

“Some might say so,” you grimace, self conscious and just a little embarrassed. Credence breaks into a smile, small and wonderful, which you find yourself returning.

“I'm married to a very powerful wizard,” he beams, bright and proud.

“Two of them, actually,” you correct him, rocking back on your heels. “Mr. Scamander is very skilled, if my understanding is anywhere close to correct.” He laughs, eyes soft and dreamy.

“Yeah, Newt's pretty good. Actually, I have to go meet him now. But. Maybe later, we could all get coffee? The three of us?” You smile, though something tells you that Newt will fight that plan with everything he has, and nod. “So yes?” Credence clarifies, tugging a little on your sleeve.

“Yes, I'd like that.” His smile is blinding, and he tugs on your jacket once more, as if to reassure himself that you're not lying, and he darts off to whatever it is he needs to do today. You nod to yourself, just once, as you watch him disappear down a corner. You'll wait for them to reach out to you.

You'll wait.

==

You wait a very long time.

==

You're still waiting, when you and Goldstein are called in for a raid on a group of dark wizards with particularly vicious reputations. You're still waiting, as you pull on your coat and watch Goldstein do the same. You're still waiting, and she catches your elbow.

“Do you want to tell them, sir?”

“No,” you say before you can think of another answer. There isn't one. If something happens – if you don't come back – there's enough of a paper trail to protect them. You've changed your will to make them the sole benefactors. That alone should be enough to take them off the Marriage Registry. You have a feeling they won't thank you.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Goldstein's mouth is flat in a frown, and you can't help but smile. She's protective of you, you realize. Of your situation. “I'm sorry you're going through this alone.”

“But I'm not alone,” you correct her, holding open your office door. “I've got you.” She doesn't have an answer for you, just quirks the corners of her mouth up in a sad imitation of comfort. 

==

Red, like blood on the sidewalk.

Purple, like bruises on a ribcage.

==

You take a curse to the chest. Goldstein, ever the professional, shouts something – your name, perhaps – and defends your honor with a violent hex. You'd be proud, if you weren't coughing up blood. Copper bursts and blooms in your lungs and the back of your mouth. Pain burns through the marrow of your bones, rattling up your spine and across your ribs.

Is this how you die?

“Of course not, sir,” Goldstein kneels next to you, her hands on your face. “You're going to be fine.”

You're okay with dying like this. Sprawled out on the floor, unable to breathe past the seizing of your muscles, your head full of lightning and screams. You're okay with this being the end.

“Well, I'm not,” she spits angrily. “Not while those stupid husbands of yours don't even know what you've done for them.”

You don't even know their favorite colors. Favorite foods. You don't know.

“There you go then,” Goldstein mutters. “Better stick around so you can find out, huh?”

But they don't want you.

==

Red, like ending.

Purple, like ending.

==

Are you ending?

==

What you don't see is this:

Tina Goldstein, the only other auror at the office worth anything, all but kicks down the door to the Scamander-Barebone apartment. Her face is wet with tears, but she's not crying. She's angry. She's furious. She clenches copies of your marriage reports in her hands. Months worth of falsified, damning documents. She slams them down on the rickety table in their kitchen. They stare at her. She screams, and screams, and screams.

She cries.

==

When you wake up, you immediately recognize the ceiling as the Spell Damage Unit of St. Barton's Magical Hospital. You wonder what it says that you can recognize the building, specifically this unit, by its ceiling alone. Everything hurts, and sparks of agony shoot across your skull when you try to move.

“Lay still, please.” A soft, accented voice says from your bedside. Despite the gentle command, you shift to see your visitor. Visitors. There are two of them. One shy, with hair dark and thick like a raven's wing on a winter's night, and the other sly, with ginger curls that fall into his eyes like waves of sunlight. Though they both look rather sad at the moment, with pink rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders.

You smile, despite the pain, and try to reach for them. Newt catches your hand softly, and lays it on the bed. His fingers curl around yours, and he bows his head. His fingers are warm. It's nice.

“I'm sorry,” he croaks. Credence nods, over and over, tears slipping down his cheeks. You'd brush them away, if you could only lift your arm. You want to tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, but all that comes out is a sigh. “No, don't speak,” Newt leans over you, not quite touching your face with his spindly fingers, “you need to get some rest. We'll be here when you wake up.”

“We're not going anywhere,” Credence croaks, laying his hands atop yours and Newt's.

You fall asleep, comfortable under the weight of their tenderness.

==

They are still there, when you wake up again. Judging by the darkness, night has fallen upon St. Barton's, and your husbands are asleep on a cot that someone has brought in for them. They're curled on their sides under a blanket, Credence tucked under Newt's chin, facing you. They each have one hand stretched out, towards you, as if to remind you that they're really staying this time.

They're really staying this time.

You don't have to wait anymore.

Newt shifts with a sigh, his eyes cracking open. He squints in the sleepy darkness of the room, and then smiles when he realizes you're awake. You smile back, and he wiggles his fingers at you.

“We're not going anywhere,” he promises, his eyes slipping closed. “You can rest, Mr. Graves. We'll still be here in the morning.”

==

“Ms. Goldstein told us what you did,” Newt blurts the next afternoon. The healers have fussed over your for the day – barring any sort of magical, medical catastrophe, you three will be left alone. It's as good a time as any to have soul baring conversations.

“Did she now,” you stare up at the ceiling, wondering what hell Goldstein unleashed upon the world while you were unconscious and potentially dying.

“She showed us the forms,” Credence mumbles, cradling your hand in his. His pale fingers tick over your knuckles with a restless affection, but he doesn't look at you. You're trying not to watch, because you're not sure if you're allowed to yet. If you'll ever be allowed to. “Said that you were risking everything to protect us.”

“Goldstein is dramatic,” you clear your throat. Newt settles his arms on the edge of the bed, folding himself practically in half. What an odd, flexible husband you have. He narrows his eyes at you, and you do your best to hold his gaze.

“She may have implied that, if you were found to be willfully lying on official MACUSA documents, you would be stripped of credentials and sacked immediately.” When you don't say anything, he exhales through his nose. “My favorite color is orange, by the way. Orange like the setting sun. Though green, like grass thriving after a rainstorm, sounds nice too.”

“I like blue. All shades,” Credence adds hesitantly. “And yellow. Orange is pretty too. So is green. I don't know if I have a favorite color though.” He shrugs, and you laugh, even though it hurts your ribs.

“I like blue too,” you admit, turning your hand up to lace your fingers with his. You glance at Newt, waiting for a reaction, as you ponder aloud. “Dark blue, like the sky during a lightning storm.” Credence studies you for a moment – Newt, in turn, studies Credence out of the corner of his eye – before surging forward and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. 

“That was sweet,” you tell him, and he blushes. And it was. Sweet. Like spun sugar, melting on the back of your tongue. “Thank you. Unfair, that you do it when I'm a hospital bed and can't do anything.” You say before you can stop yourself. You want to be able to tease your husbands. You want to be allowed to. Credence blushes harder, staring at your entwined fingers, and Newt watches you both with a fond sort of curiosity.

==

Credence falls asleep between you and Newt. He's sleeping on his side, fingers still touching yours, with his back pressed against Newt's hip. They pushed the cot close to your bed – as close as the healers will allow – so you can see the fluttering of his eyelashes as he dreams. Newt is carding his fingers through his hair with one hand, watching him fondly, as he speaks.

“My patronus,” he tells you abruptly, “is an axolotl.”

“An axolotl.” You repeat, amused and all too proud of yourself. Something utterly bizarre, indeed.

“Yes. It's a walking fish – a type of salamander,” he chooses his words carefully, but his eyes light up with excitement. How many people have humored him while he waxed poetic about his patronus? “Unlike other amphibians, which thrive both on land and in water, axolotls never develop lungs. Instead, they have gills, with frilled gill stalks. Truly fascinating little buggers.”

“You've researched them,” you comment mildly, and he he looks at you with a smile.

“Is that surprising?”

“No.” You huff, thinking of his famed case of creatures. A case which you will perhaps get to see, one day soon. “Mine is a snow leopard,” you say quietly, brushing Credence's fingertips with your own. They twitch – his hand curls into a little fist – but he doesn't wake.

“Snow leopard,” Newt echoes. “That sounds lovely.”

“Not as unique as an axolotl.”

“Lovely all the same, Mr. Graves,” he insists. “Have you ever seen one, in real life?”

“Only in zoos,” you say, shrugging and then immediately hissing in pain. Movement is still difficult – your entire body is sore, and your bones ache with every shift. Newt watches you grimace, his eyes wide with sympathy. “You can call me Percival, you know.” You offer, if only so you can hear what your name sounds like in his voice, how he holds the syllables of yourself in his mouth.

“Percival,” Newt repeats to himself, testing out the shape of your name. You blush, dropping your gaze to focus on Credence.

“What's his patronus, if I may ask?” Newt follows your gaze, brushing back Credence's bangs from his forehead. The boy nuzzles into the touch, sighing softly.

“We haven't gotten that far in his studies,” Newt admits quietly. “He only recently came into his powers, and I've been doing my best to teach him. He's a wonderful student though – picks it up like you wouldn't believe.”

“I could help,” you say without thinking. You refuse to look at Newt, suddenly terrified of what he might say. You don't mean to intrude on their life – their quiet little paradise – but you've been so lonely, for so long. You keep thinking about dying and you're still waiting. 

But they're here, in your hospital room, and you're allowed to touch them. You're allowed to tease them. So maybe you're allowed more. Maybe you're allowed to want. Because you do. You _want_. You want them in your manor, in you life. You want to learn about Newt's creatures and teach Credence magic. You want them in your garden, in your library, in your bathtub. You want to kiss both of them at the same time. You want a family.

“Credence mentioned you using wandless magic – he said you're a very powerful wizard.” Startled, you stare at him – Newt's teasing, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Wouldn't hurt to have one of those around.” You groan, more embarrassed than anything, and cover your face with one hand. “And Credence would probably benefit from having more than one teacher.”

“So, I can stay then?” You ask before you can stop yourself, dropping your hand to rest on the bed.

“Oh yes, Percival,” Newt's grin softens into something kind and quiet, “you can stay.”


End file.
